A Light in the Window (24 page)

The houses of Mitford were frozen like so many ice cubes in a tray. Lights shone from windows onto the drifting snow, as leaden skies made even the daylight seem one long dusk. Everywhere, spirals of chimney smoke were violently snatched by the wind and blown through the streets, so that the stinging drafts of arctic air contained a reassuring myrrh of wood smoke.

The high winds did not cease. In some places, snowdrifts covered doors and windows so completely that people had to be dug out by more fortunate neighbors. Cars that had been abandoned on the street appeared to be the humps of a vast white caterpillar, inching up the hill toward Fernbank.

Percy Mosely lived too far from town to make it to the Grill and open up, but Mule Skinner, who lived only a block away, managed to open the doors at seven on Tuesday morning, brew the coffee extra-strong, and fry every piece of bacon on hand. J.C. Hogan, who was waiting out the storm in his upstairs newspaper office, came down at once. The weary town crew, unable to start the frozen diesel engines of their snowplows, were the only other customers.

Unlike most snows, this one did not bring the children to Baxter Park. The sleds stayed in garages, the biscuit pans shut away in cupboards. This was a different snow, an ominous snow.

Martha called. Stuart was safely ensconced in a motel outside Holding, after being stuck on the mountain behind a brutal wreck for five hours and stranded in a drift on the side of the road for three.

He learned that long-distance calls could not be received because of overloaded circuits, and there was still no answer at Cynthia’s apartment.

The winds howled and moaned without letup. He could see the drapes move in the living room but couldn’t see across the street for the brilliance of the whirling snow.

He checked the kitchen drawer for candles and matches, the flashlight for batteries, and the lantern for kerosene. He refused to look at the woodpile.

In just two days, she would be home. Surely, the weather would change, she would get through, and she would rush toward him from the little commuter plane, laughing, her eyes blue as cornflowers.

The very last thing to think about was who had answered when he called.

At four o’clock, he discovered the telephone lines were again dead.

Two hours later, he put the kettle on to boil. At the moment he turned the stove dial, the lights went out. It was as if he, himself, had pulled a switch that brought the whole thing down into darkness.

On Sunday, the alarm rang at five o’clock.

He lay there, frozen as a mullet, listening to the ceaseless roar of the wind. There would be no heat in the church, nor any sensible way for the congregation to get there. He had never before missed a Sunday service because of weather.

In his mind, he counted the logs in the garage. He thought he could count six or seven and not a stick more.

“I’m freezin’ m’ tail,” said Dooley, who appeared in sweatpants and a ski jacket and crawled under the covers. Barnabas yawned and pushed in between them.

“I ain’t goin’ t’ no church,” said Dooley. His teeth were chattering.

“Me either.”

“What’re we goin’t’ do?”

If there was anything he didn’t like about having a boy in the house, it was feeling he should have all the answers. “Blast if I know,” he said, huddling against Barnabas. “What do you think we should do?”

“You could get up an’ fry some bacon and baloney.”

“How? By rubbing two sticks together?”

“Poop, I done forgot.” He soon heard Dooley’s whiffling snore.

Hello, Cynthia? Timothy. How’s the weather up there? His mind turned once again to what he might say, if only he could reach her.

“Don’t start that nonsense,” he said aloud. Think, instead, of how Miss Sadie and Louella and Uncle Billy and Miss Rose will be faring on this miserable and wretched morning, and pray, for God’s sake, for their welfare.

He crossed himself and prayed silently. Assist us mercifully, O Lord, that among the changes and chances of this violent storm, your people may ever be defended by your gracious and ready help ... Hello, Cynthia? Timothy. We were cut off the other day, and when I tried to reach you again, there was no answer. Then the lines went down for three days, and so, how are you? ... O Lord, create in me a clean heart, and renew a right spirit ... Hello, Cynthia, Timothy. How are you?

There was only one way to knock such idiocy in the head. He got out of bed and fell to his knees on a floor that felt like an ice rink.

The fire was fairly crackling, and he closed his mind to the fact that its cheer would be short-lived.

“This is neat.”

“Bologna to die for,” he said, picking two thick, browned slices out of the skillet with a fork and putting them on Dooley’s toast. “Eat up, my friend, and don’t hold back on the mustard.” As for himself, he hadn’t tasted such bacon since he was a Scout. He looked at their camp mess spread around the hearth. Not a bad way to live, after all.

The wind had cast torrents of snow against the study windows, where it froze solid, shutting out the light. They might have been swaddled in a cocoon, filled with an eerie glow.

He took a swallow of the coffee that he’d brewed over the fire in a saucepan. “Whose name did you draw at school? I’ve been meaning to ask.”

“I drawed ol’ Buster’s name, but I didn’t git‘im nothin’.”

“Why not?”

“I traded for somebody else’s name.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Jenny’s.”

“Aha.”

“Had t’ give ol’ Peehead Wilson a dollar and a half to swap.”

“Not a bad deal, considering.”

“I got ’er a book.”

“A book! Terrific. Best gift out there, if you ask me.”

“About horses.”

“She likes horses?”

“She hates horses.”

“I see.”

“So I got ‘er this book so she can git t’ know ’em and like ’em.”

“Good thinking, pal.”

They drew closer to the brightness of the fire.

“You like ol’ Cynthia?”

“Yes. Very much.”

“ You love ’er?”

“I ... don’t know. I think so.”

“How come you don’t know?”

He really did dislike feeling that he had to have all the answers. “I don’t know why I don’t know! Do you love Jenny?”

Dooley looked forlorn. “I don’t know.”

“One thing’s for sure,” said the rector, “this is the dumbest conversation I’ve heard since the vestry made its new ruling on toilet paper.”

In some places, the drifts were twenty feet high, and everywhere ice gleamed upon the snow like glaze on a sheet cake.

It was impossible to walk in this glittering ice kingdom, nor was there any standing up on the slick crust that lay over the ground.

Twice, he put on multiple layers of clothing and his warmest boots, determined to check on Miss Rose and Uncle Billy and fight his way up the hill to Fernbank, but the ice turned him back before he was scarcely clear of the garage. Attempting to leave by the front door, he made it down the porch steps but slipped and careened down the bank, slamming into the telephone pole at the sidewalk.

They stuffed towels along the sills of the aged windows and at the base of every door. They kept the faucets open, to delay, at least, the freezing of the pipes. In the garage, they found a ladder-back chair intended for the rummage sale and a set of decrepit pine folding tables.

“We’ll use the chair tonight and save the tables for tomorrow,” he said, unconsciously looking around his own study for firewood.

He was finding that Dooley Barlowe could go the mile. He might be a complainer when life was soft, but he knew how to be tough when the chips were down.

“You’re OK, buddy.”

“When’s ol’ Cynthia comin’ home?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

“I bet she ain’t.”

And what gift would he give her if she did come home? As was often the case, he’d left a crucial decision until the last minute, hoping the solution would fall out of the sky.